


Convalescence

by blacktop



Series: The Crossing Quartet [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktop/pseuds/blacktop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To heal fast, get back out on the street, hunt down Simmons, and avenge the attack on Carter, Reese knew he required sleep above all else. Finch applies wise help just where it is needed.  Spoilers for S3, E10 "The Devil's Share."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convalescence

**Author's Note:**

> This tale follows on the action in the earlier story, _Full of Sound,_ in which Reese and Carter were severely wounded by Simmons' surprise attack. But no one died.

When the disembodied debate in the kitchen collapsed into a fierce exchange of Farsi curses and Hindu prayers, Reese felt he had to act. 

The noise raked over his nerves, disrupting his rest, and he needed it to stop.

Lying immobilized on the narrow bed in Finch’s safe house for days on end was annoying but necessary, he knew. Gunshot wounds took time to heal, even in these most elegant and serene surroundings. Six days was not quite long enough, though it already felt like an eternity.

And listening to the thrum and beep of the heart monitor punctuated by Bear’s wet snuffles was driving him toward the edge. 

But he could hold on: strict discipline was important to recovery. So he resisted the urge to scratch at the stitches in his stomach, the catheter and the puncture sites for the blood transfusion tubes, his oily scalp and prickly stubble.

There was only one important thing, the one true thing that mattered: Joss was safe. 

Finch told him so every time he asked about her. Each time he awakened he asked the same question –- was Joss alive? And every time the simplicity of the repeated assurance was a balm on his anxious heart.

Joss was safe, under intensive care in a hospital nearby, surrounded by honest police and monitored by her mother, her son and a brigade of her friends. She was safe.

So he had to concentrate on his current assignment: getting healthy. Or at least healthy enough to leave this bed again and resume his hunt for Simmons, the vile animal who attacked her and almost took her life.

If he focused on that future -- the day not far off when he would escape this antiseptic apartment and return to his own room above Pooja’s restaurant -- then the maddening itch festering over every square inch of skin would subside for a while and he could rest again. 

But when that concentration broke, guilt stacked up in the corners of his mind like dry kindling awaiting another spark to set off the rage again. 

Unfocused, over and over he relieved those disastrous seconds in the alley. 

He was sure nothing in that assault was inevitable: If he had lunged in time, he could have pushed Joss out of harm’s way. If he had spotted the enemy’s raised gun barrel in time he could have drawn fire away from her. If he had guessed or known or turned in time the near-fatal catastrophe could have been avoided.

As he lay cycling in and out of the druggy fog of convalescence, guilt mixed with anger in equal portions. In that furious storm, when his focus slipped and his thoughts careened out of control, sleep was a precious refuge.

But tonight’s argument between his colleague Sam Shaw and his landlady Mrs. Soni disrupted the healing sleep. 

The quarrel seemed interminable and the noise was veering toward unbearable. 

He rolled his head to the left and looked at Finch who was squeezed into a stiff chair, pecking away at a laptop balanced on his knees.

“Finch, what in the world are they squabbling over now?” 

Being seriously wounded earned him a little petulance, he figured, so he let the whine inflect his voice.

His employer seemed patient, at least on the surface. He closed the laptop slowly.

“Mr. Reese, they are arguing over your medical treatment.” 

“Well, it sounds like the opening salvos of Armageddon out there.”

Finch let a tiny smile quirk up the right side of his mouth. 

“I am thinking of recruiting Secretary Kerry for some discreet shuttle diplomacy. Surely the prospect of heading off an international incident would merit his attention, don’t you agree?”

Reese grunted in reply and was about to offer another quip when a shout from the kitchen pierced their exchange. After a pause, his friend continued.

“Before they lapsed into their own mother tongues, I gathered that Ms. Shaw and Mrs. Soni disagreed over how best to help you recover from your wounds.”

“Oh, yeah?” Reese faked neutrality on the topic.

He knew Finch would grasp at this chance to banter, so he nodded in encouragement. Responding, the older man expanded on the origins of the current dispute. 

“When Mrs. Soni arrived here at the safe house four days ago, Ms. Shaw didn’t exactly throw a welcome party.”

Reese could feel Finch winding up to recite a tale, elaborating a distraction that would humor him out of his dark mood. He was willing to go along with the story telling, so he offered a prompt.

“How did Mrs. Soni find me anyway?”

“You know her methods, Mr. Reese.” 

Actually, neither man did exactly, but it seemed best not to admit to that ignorance in the circumstances.

“In reply to my question, she said that the cousin of one of her waiters is foreman of the night maintenance crew at the police station next to the alley where you were shot.” 

Finch raised his voice over the racket from down the hall.

“Based on that second hand report she concluded that Detective Carter had been gravely wounded. From there it was only a few judicious inquiries until Mrs. Soni found out that you too had been injured and were currently recuperating in this apartment.” 

Finch shook his head in apparent wonder.

“She commands a wider network of confederates across this city than even our old friend Carl Elias. I am convinced that her friends and relatives are as well-placed, well-informed, and resourceful as any the mob leader can deploy.”

“But somewhat less lethal, I imagine.” Reese chuckled at the thought of Mrs. Soni as a crime overlord. 

Finch seemed in a hurry to agree. “Yes, I certainly hope so, Mr. Reese.”

The scope and efficiency of the intelligence network operated by Mrs. Soni never failed to astound –- and frighten –- Reese. If he could just get Finch to find a way to harness the power of her human connections to his own machine, he was sure they could create an unstoppable system for crime detection and prevention.

But that was a problem for another day.

Reese smiled encouragement as his friend continued the account.

“That first evening, Mrs. Soni wasted no time inspecting your injuries.” Reese raised his eyebrows at this news but remained silent.

Finch seemed to cringe at the invasion of privacy.

“I didn’t let her, you know. Not exactly, I mean. But, well, she’s really quite agile for her age. She slipped past me down the hall and by the time I arrived at your bedside she had already completed a close examination of the wound site.” 

Reese tugged down the hem of his t-shirt and pulled the white sheet over his collarbone.

“You remained unconscious throughout the examination and, fortunately for all parties, Mrs. Soni seemed mollified once she was done with her inspection. She pronounced Dr. Madani’s stitches well-crafted and was satisfied that there were no signs of infection.” 

Despite Finch’s light-hearted tone, Reese knew the next part of the story was grim. 

He closed his eyes, wanting to avoid seeing any residual worry on his friend’s face.

He could still feel the flames of anguish that had consumed him in those first hours; a desperate rage to track down the man responsible for hurting Joss had flared in his chest then, driving him out into the street. 

That fire still scorched his insides, burning unabated after all these days. His chest ached with the hurt of containing that anger.

As Reese’s fury rose again, the heart monitor raced in time to his escalating emotions. He felt like he was hooked to a lie detector, its frantic crescendo calibrating revenge rather than truth.

Finch flicked his eyes toward the monitor, and Reese caught a wrinkle of concern puckering between the polished lenses. 

To beat the machine, he focused on breathing in through his nostrils and exhaling through his mouth, a technique he knew could calm his galloping pulse. 

After a few silent exchanges of air, Reese was satisfied that the heart monitor had registered his apparent return to normal.

Just as it was easy to trick the machine, it had been easy enough to evade Finch’s watch that first night.

By not sharing his plans, Reese had been able to avoid any countermanding orders.

His rampage across the city might have seemed random to an outsider, even insane. But for Reese the mission was clear, the objective unwavering: Simmons tried to kill Joss, so he must be eliminated. By whatever means necessary. 

Health, freedom, even his life, all were collateral damage Reese was willing to risk in this campaign of extermination. But when Finch had dragged him back to the safe house -- his mind dazed, his body drained to the point of death -- the mission remained infuriatingly unfulfilled.

The older man coughed and set the laptop on the lower shelf of a small table beside his chair. He drew his gaze away from the heart monitor and back toward Reese.

“But when the, um, the circumstances required that your torn stitches be replaced, Mrs. Soni brought in her own expert. I gather that you were already acquainted with Dr. Krishna Patel.”

“Yes, he’s Mrs. Soni’s relative. Married to the third great grand-daughter of her oldest sister. He’s treated me a time or two.”

Reese felt no need to elaborate on the help Dr. Patel had given him on several occasions when his own first-aid kit had been inadequate to the medical emergency.

“Well, I am relieved that Dr. Patel’s stitches have held up nicely over the past few days.” Finch’s expressive eyes were mild, but penetrating.

Reese thought his boss wanted to add he was happy that there had been no more attempts to resume the hunt for Simmons.

To divert the conversation back toward lighter issues, Reese brought up his comrade in arms.

“So I figure Shaw was mighty pissed off at being upstaged, seeing as how she was almost a doctor herself and all.”

“She was indeed irritated at Mrs. Soni’s assumption of the superior role. Ms. Shaw may have termed it ‘intrusive’ or words to that effect.” 

Finch could turn a delicate phrase when he needed to and clearly he felt this was one of those times.

“And now? What are they going at hammer and tongs about now?”

As if to provide sound effects for Reese’s question, the crash of metal pans on tiles interrupted their conversation at that moment.

Finch inhaled sharply, but pressed on.

“As you might imagine, Mrs. Soni’s views on medical treatment are quite traditional. She believes that relying on the passage of time coupled with bed rest and the consumption of large doses of highly spiced vegetarian soups will affect a cure.”

Reese nodded. “Well, it’s worked on me before, so she has a point.”

“In contrast, Ms. Shaw asserts that copious blood transfusions and red meat applied in equal quantities will have you combat ready in no time. She also thinks you should get to the firing range as soon as possible, but I have vetoed that.”

With a grimace, Reese struggled to right himself on the soft mattress.

If he was going to heal fast, get back on the street, hunt down Simmons and kill him, Reese knew he needed sleep. Lots of it.

He realized Shaw and Mrs. Soni meant well, wanted the best for him. He didn’t really deserve their vigorous concern but he was grateful for it. 

A circle of friends who cared for him, watched over him, even loved him, was a unique experience in his life. He treasured their support far beyond his feeble ability to express gratitude.

But now, right now, what he needed more than Mulligatawny stew or strip sirloin was for them to shut up and let him rest.

He swung his knees toward the edge of the bed and threw back the sheet. With a few swift jerks, he pulled out all the tubes, leads, and wires. The heart monitor beeped once, twice, then stopped.

“Help me up, Finch.” 

“Mr. Reese, I don’t see that this is a good idea…” Finch puffed out the words as his eyebrows rose over his glasses.

“If I get up by myself I’ll rip these stitches all over again. So help me up, Harold.”

Working together the two friends managed to get Reese on his feet. 

He shoved the t-shirt into the waistband of his loose pajamas and tightened its drawstring with a firm tug. Thus armored, Reese headed toward the kitchen alone, prepared to settle the dispute between his warring caregivers.

Or at least negotiate an evening’s truce based on a plea for compassion from a wounded combatant. 

His appeal respected, Reese got what he craved: a rare night’s sleep.

And with the blazing fire in his heart banked for a few hours more, he was one day closer to vengeance.


End file.
